“Please tell me you own a stand mixer.”
“I do.”
“I knew it!”
She clasped her hands dramatically.
“You are literally saving my life.”
I already knew what was coming.
“What happened?”
“I’m making a cake for Saturday, and my hand mixer is completely useless.”
Then she pointed past me toward the kitchen.
“The cream-colored one?”
My stomach immediately tightened.
It was an old KitchenAid.
Heavy.
Cream-colored.
There were scratches near the bottom and one tiny chip in the enamel from when my father accidentally hit it with a metal
